The Columbia Anthology of Modern Japanese Literature: From Restoration to Occupation, 1868-1945: vol. 1 (Modern Asian Literature Series)

by J. Thomas Rimer

  or sing out

  but seals its grief-laden heart

  in a cocoon it weaves

  tsutsu mashiku

  nakanu utawanu

  ko ga kokoro

  kanashiku komete

  mayu amareken

  stark naked

  I hold in my hand

  a red apple

  holding it in my hand

  I take a morning bath

  hadaka nite

  ware wa mochitari

  kurenai no

  ringo mochitari

  asaburo no naka ni

  ten years ago

  I was a madwoman

  with eyes fixed on

  fiery red cherry blossoms

  inky black cherry blossoms

  kyōjin no

  ware ga minikeru

  totose mae no

  makkana sakura

  makuroki sakura

  as I gaze upon

  a bundle of small red roses

  with fear in my heart

  each and every flower

  turns into an eye

  osore moteru

  waga mite areba

  beni kobara

  hitotsu hitotsu mina

  me to narinikeri

  a flower blooms

  showing the natural color

  it was born with

  while I have never known

  in what color I am to bloom

  onozu kara

  naru inochi no iro ni

  hana sakeri

  waga saku iro wo

  ware wa shiranu ni

  having let flow

  all the blood to flow

  in the kitchen

  a dead fish lies gleaming

  in the stillness of noon

  nagaruru chi

  nagashi tsukushite

  kuriyabe ni

  shigyo hikaru nari

  hiru no shizukesa

  Translated by Makoto Ueda

  OZAKI HŌSAI

  Although Ozaki Hōsai (1885–1926) graduated from Tokyo University and began working for an insurance firm, a drinking problem led him to abandon his middle-class life. He then entered a Buddhist monastery in Kyoto and eventually took over the guardianship of a small temple on Shōdo Island in the Inland Sea. Here he wrote many of his haiku, which deal unsentimentally with loneliness and solitude. Hōsai’s work was a great inspiration to Taneda Santōka and others.

  I have no bowl

  I receive

  with my hands

  iremono ga nai

  ryōte de

  ukeru

  in coughing too

  I am

  alone

  seki wo

  shite mo

  hitori

  Translated by Janine Beichman

  All day long

  I don’t say a word:

  A butterfly casts its shadow.

  Ichinichi

  mono iwazu

  chō no kage sasu.

  When I wash the soles of my feet

  They become white.

  Ashi no ura araeba

  shiroku naru

  Translated by Donald Keene

  Splendid breasts—

  there is a mosquito.

  Subarashii chibusa da

  ka ga iru

  Translated by Makoto Ueda

  SAITŌ MOKICHI

  To many people, Saitō Mokichi (1868–1953) is the best and most representative of all twentieth-century tanka writers. He pursued both a literary and a medical career at the same time. One of the first physicians to study psychiatry in Germany, he later became the director of a psychiatric hospital in Tokyo. His son, the writer Kita Morio, whose work appears in the second volume of this anthology, loosely based the character of the protagonist in his novel The House of Nire (Nireke no hitobito) on Mokichi.

  Crimson

  the crape-myrtle

  had bloomed

  and yet this madman

  said not a word

  kurenai no

  sarusuberi wa

  sakinuredo

  kono kyōjin wa

  mono wa iwazukeri

  As I lie beside my mother

  who is close to death,

  piercingly the call

  of frogs in distant fields

  echoes in the heavens.

  shi ni chikaki

  haha ni soine no

  shinshin to

  tōta no kawazu

  ten ni kikoyuru

  At daybreak,

  the great steam horn

  sounds from the ship,

  its echo lingering;

  the mountains arrayed.

  asa akete

  fune yori nareru

  futobue no

  kodama wa nagashi

  namiyorou yama

  I was standing there

  by the Tenryū River

  where white-capped waves

  of the river rapids

  came cascading from beyond.

  mukō yori

  se no shiranami no

  tagichi kuru

  Tenryū gawa

  oritachinikeri

  In my calling

  there is not a single

  moment of respite:

  I think about insanity

  both waking and sleeping.

  nariwai wa

  itoma sae nashi

  monogurui no

  koto o zo omou

  nete mo samete mo

  To see the charcoal

  flourish into flame—

  brightly, brightly!—

  a sudden tranquillity,

  yesterday, today . . .

  akaaka to

  okoreru sumi o

  mire toki zo

  hayamo yasuragu

  kinō mo kyō mo

  Is this what

  quietude is like?

  on a winter night

  the sounds of the air

  which surrounds me

  shizukesa wa

  kaku no gotoki ka

  fuyu no yo no

  ware o megureru

  kūki no oto su

  No words are left

  to tear at my heart—

  the flames frolic

  in the hearth

  evening in winter

  Kuyashimamu

  koto mo taetari

  ro no naka ni

  hono’o no asobu

  fuyu no yūgure

  Translated by Amy Vladeck Heinrich

  SHAKU CHŌKŪ

  Shaku Chōkū (1887–1953) is the Buddhist name that the scholar and anthropologist Origuchi Shinobu chose when writing poetry. A sample of his prose appears elsewhere in this anthology. Shaku’s continuing interest in ancient Japanese myth and legend is reflected in his poetry through his use of archaic words and other devices. The Anthology of a Thousand Leaves (Man’yōshū), the first collection of Japanese poetry, dating from the eighth century, was a particular interest, and Shaku made a highly regarded, complete translation into modern Japanese of the lengthy and difficult-to-read original.

  imagining

  the grassy ground not shown

  in the newsreel

  of a victorious battle

  I grieve

  isamashiki

  niusu eiga ni,

  utsuri konu

  kusamura-zuchi wo

  omoi kanashimu

  somewhere around

  Lord Buddha’s eyes

  I keep seeing

  the sadness of a weary man

  mihotoke no

  bimoku no hodo no

  unjitaru

  sabishisa wo omou.

  as I trudge along this road

  kono michi no aida

  VULTURES

  —in the midst of war

  flocking together

  crying and swooping down

  vultures in the sky

  underneath

  muragarite

  nakitsutsu kudaru

  ōzora no

  shichō no shita wo
<
br />   I keep walking

  ware wa yukunari

  Translated by Makoto Ueda

  SUGITA HISAJO

  Another noted writer of haiku, Sugita Hisajo (1890–1946) was an early disciple of another well-known haiku poet, Takahama Kyoshi (1874–1959), an early associate of Masaoka Shiki. Sugita characterized herself as passionate and idealistic, and many of her poems are highly personal.

  spring cold—

  round a young chrysanthemum leaf

  how sharp the teeth!

  harusamu ya

  kizami surudoki

  kogiku no me

  gums itching

  the baby bites my nipple—

  spring’s hazy sky

  haguki kayuku

  chikubi kamu ko ya

  hanagumori

  home from blossom-viewing—

  as I disrobe, many straps

  cling to my body

  hanagoromo

  nugu ya matsuwaru

  nimo iroiro

  sewing in the lamplight

  I teach spelling to my child—

  autumn rain

  hi ni nūte

  ko ni oshiyuru ji

  aki no ame

  reading a play

  dishes left in the sink

  this winter night

  gikyoku yomu

  fuyu yo no shokki

  tsukeshi mama

  she mends socks

  not quite a Nora

  this teacher’s wife

  tabi tsugu ya

  Nora1 to mo narazu

  kyōshizuma

  air-raid sirens—

  the last to turn off the lights

  is a temple with blossoms

  kūshū no

  hi wo keshi okure

  hana no tera

  Translated by Makoto Ueda

  TANEDA SANTŌKA

  As a young man, Taneda Santōka (1882–1940) lived a life of extreme poverty and was forced to abandon his family. In 1924 he entered a Zen temple, and in 1927 he began his celebrated wanderings around Japan as a mendicant monk. Santōka cited his major influences as the Tokugawa-period haiku poet Matsuo Bashō and his own contemporary, Ozaki Hōsai.

  the deeper I go

  the deeper I go

  green mountains

  wakeitte mo

  wakeitte mo

  aoi yama

  sleep on the ground

  sooner or later

  peaceful as a clod of dirt

  izure wa

  tsuchikure no yasukesa de

  tsuchi ni neru

  came along

  a mountain path

  talking to myself

  yamaji kite

  hirorigoto iute

  ita

  edge of town

  all graveyard

  and the sound of waves

  machi-hazure wa

  bochi to naru

  namioto

  somewhere

  inside my head

  a crow is cawing

  doko ka de

  atama no naka de

  karasu ga naku

  dawn coming on

  honing the sickle

  akete kuru

  kama o togu

  no desire to die

  no desire to live

  the wind blows over me

  shinitaku mo

  ikitaku mo nai

  kaze ga furete yuku

  road running straight ahead

  rolling a big thing

  down on me

  michi ga massugu

  ōkina mono o

  korogashite kuru

  Heaven

  doesn’t kill me

  it makes me write poems

  ten

  ware o korosazu shite

  shi o tsukurashimu

  valiantly—that too

  pitifully—that too

  white boxes

  isamashiku mo

  kanashiku mo

  shiroi hako

  nothing left of the house

  I was born in

  fireflies

  umareta ie wa

  atokata mo nai

  hōtaru

  the mountain’s stillness

  white blossoms

  yama no shizukesa wa

  shiroi hana

  this trip

  likely the one I’ll die on

  dandelions gone to fuzz

  kono tabi

  shi no tabi de arō

  hohoke tanpopo

  autumn wind

  for all my walking—

  for all my walking—

  aki kaze

  aruite mo

  aruite mo

  waiting for what?

  each day each day

  more fallen leaves pile up

  nani o matsu

  hi ni hi ni

  ochiba fukō naru

  Translated by Burton Watson

  YAMAGUCHI SEISHI

  It is difficult to know in which period to place Yamaguchi Seishi (1901–1994) and his accomplishments as a haiku poet. After studying law, Seishi began working in Osaka, but because he was so often sick, he was forced to stop working regularly and moved successively to a series of small towns on the Japan Sea. By the early 1930s, Seishi had become famous for his unconventional poems, which combine a sensitivity to nature and the use of unusual and modern subject matter.

  Up to summer grass,

  wheels of a locomotive

  coming to a stop.

  natsukusa ni

  kikansha no sharin

  kite tomaru

  The summer river

  immersing the scarlet end

  of an iron chain.

  natsu no kawa

  akaki tessa no

  hashi hitaru

  Cleaning yellowtail

  in water turned vermilion

  by their flowing blood.

  chishio koki

  mizu ni shi nao mo

  buri arau

  Miserable ant

  climbing up a house pillar

  higher and higher.

  aware ari

  ie no hashira wo

  takaagaru

  On a hook he hangs—

  the wild boar, much as he lived,

  with his dirty tusks.

  shishi tsurusu

  ikite ishi kiba

  kitanakere

  Translated by Takashi Kodaira and Alfred H. Marks

  DRAMA

  The art of a new drama was slower to develop in Japan. The traditional form of kabuki continued to attract some writers, and a new form of drama called shinpa, a sort of cross between kabuki and modern theater, maintained a certain vogue. The composition of a superior spoken drama (shingeki) in Japanese, however, began only around the time of World War I. One of the reasons for this was that such drama could not be performed without actors, directors, and appropriate theater spaces. As these became available and more professional, more and more writers tried their hand at dramas for them. The following two plays are examples of what was still, at this time, an experimental form of twentieth-century Japanese literature. Both are in one act, a less demanding form for writers without experience in the complexities of dramatic construction.

  KISHIDA KUNIO

  Kishida Kunio (1890–1954) was the most highly regarded shingeki playwright of the interwar period dedicated to artistic rather overtly political goals. While his longer plays are evocative and dramatically effective, his early one-act sketches retain a particular freshness and charm. The Swing (Buranko), of 1925, has long remained a favorite and occasionally is still performed.

  THE SWING (BURANKO)

  Translated by David G. Goodman

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  Husband

  Wife

  Colleague of Husband, nicknamed “The Mantis”

  PLACE AND TIME

  A living room. Morning.

  WIFE (arranging dishes on a low table): Time to get up!

  HUSBAND (from within): I’m up. I’m up. What tim
e is it, anyway?

  WIFE: You know perfectly well what time it is.

  HUSBAND: That late?

  WIFE: What time did you think it was?

  HUSBAND (apparently jumping up from his bed): Really? (Pause.) The Mantis isn’t here yet, is he?

  WIFE (concerned about the neighbors): Keep your voice down, will you please?

  HUSBAND (entering): I had the most fantastic dream last night.

  WIFE (ignoring him): The toothpaste tube is leaking, so be careful.

  HUSBAND (going toward the kitchen): Any rats last night?

  WIFE (still preoccupied with the items on her tray): Where did you put it yesterday morning? You didn’t go out to the bath last night either. . . .

  HUSBAND (picking his teeth with a toothpick): I really should get to the bath today, I guess.

  WIFE: This burdock from day before yesterday’s no good anymore, is it?

  HUSBAND: Beats me. I’ve had a lot of dreams, but this is the strangest one of all. (Pause.) A really nice dream.

  WIFE: Did you find the towel?

  HUSBAND: Yes. You have to pay attention to dreams. The minute I say that, you come back with, “You can’t put stock in dreams.” Well, of course, just because you strike it rich in a dream doesn’t mean you’re going to strike it rich in real life. Nobody’s stupid enough to put that much stock in dreams. (Pause.) Dreams are just dreams. I accept that. But while I’m on the subject, dreams are different from fantasies, too. After all, dreams are real events in your life. They actually happen while you’re asleep.